Miles, Magic, and Mayhem
by Atlantima
Summary: Desmond Miles expected to die. He didn't expect to wake up in a horse-drawn cart headed for execution. /I must've passed out again, and they stuck me back in the Animus as usual./ But the Animus has a few bugs, it seems. He can't get to the menu or turn on the map. Also there's dragons. (Spoilers through AC3)
1. The End and The Beginning

Through the blaring light that pierced his ineffectual eyelids, and the swirling pulses of energy that whipped at his body like a fierce wind, and the burning heat that shot up his arm, a smaller stimulus also reached Desmond.

He swore he distinctly heard a short sound. Something like "voip".

Yes, "voip". Something had gone "voip". A few of his neurons vaguely wondered what process exactly had produced the "voip", but they were drowned out by the 99.98% remaining neurons that were ragingly lamenting his painful fate.

After the "voip", all the pain and the smell of burning flesh fell away. Desmond supposed this, then, was what it felt like to die.

However, he still felt the steady rhythmic thrumming of the power coursing through the ancient place.

The burning heat from the Eye had gone. And now there was a cold wind.

A **very** cold wind. Desmond began to shiver. He wished he'd just hurry the fuck up and die already.

Then someone was shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, stranger." His eyes fluttered open cautiously. "Wouldn't do for you to fall asleep and freeze to death before we're even to Helgen."

That rhythmic thrumming he'd felt coursing through the Grand Temple was now the steady movement of a rickety wooden cart. _What the fuck?_


	2. Technical Difficulties

__What the fuck?__

Desmond had no idea what the hell was happening, nor where he was.

Well, he had ****some**** idea where he was: in a horse-drawn carriage, being carted along a rural path in a wintry forest. Other than that, he was absolutely lost. He tried bringing up the map, but it was in vain. Either this was one of those memories where the map wasn't available, or he wasn't in an Animus at all. Which would mean this was real life.

But this couldn't be real life, because everyone was dressed in ragged leather, iron chainmail, and the like. This was obviously some memory from Altaïr's time period, though obviously not Altaïr's geographic region.

A burly man with long blonde braids noticed Desmond looking around and addressed him. "Hey, you. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." He gestured to a dirty-faced man in a ratty sleeveless shirt and torn pants.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," the thief growled. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell." He turned to Desmond. "You there. You and me - we shouldn't be here."

The blonde spoke again. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." He then looked back at Desmond, sizing him up. "You're an Imperial, right? How'd you fall in with Stormcloak?"

Desmond had no idea what the fuck an Imperial or a Stormcloak was, and it seemed that his ancestor didn't either, for when Desmond had him respond with "What?" he felt no dip in his synchronization level.

"Hm? You're not?" The blonde squinted at him. "But you've got that classic stonking Imperial nose."

The thief spoke up again. "You can't judge by the nose alone! I've seen bigger noses on Bretons and Nords!"

The armored man driving their carriage raised his voice in anger. "Shut up back there! Or I'll have you all gagged like the murderer!"

"Watch your tongue!" the blonde snarled, and gestured to the gagged man, who Desmond noticed was dressed a little too nicely compared with the rest of the cart's occupants. "That's no murderer! That's Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?" The thief's voice rose in panic as he addressed the gagged man. "You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"Helgen, isn't it? From the direction we're heading," put in another man, the one who'd woken Desmond earlier. "Though I could be wrong."

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," answered the stoic blonde.

"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!" The thief began to break down in tears. "I don't want to die! Not like this!"

Desmond wasn't worried about being executed. __'Course this guy is gonna escape somehow. He's had to have escaped in order for him to have sex and pass on his DNA. The worst that'll happen to me is desynching.__

He tried to block out the inane dialogue from the other prisoners, tried to recall the events of the modern day, to remember how he'd gotten back in the Animus.

__I remember... I was activating the Eye in the Grand Temple... and then... then I woke up here... Shit. I must've passed out again, and they stuck me back in the Animus as usual. Well, at least I'm not dead. I've got that much going for me. But I really don't wanna be in here any longer than necessary. Fuckin' Bleeding Effect's screwed me up enough already.__

He tilted his head skyward. "Rebecca? Shaun? Dad?"

"What's wrong with you?" the thief asked, wiping his eyes.

"I want out, guys! Can you get me out?"

"It's no use, brother." The blonde patted Desmond's shoulder, or rather, the shoulder of whatever ancestor he was reliving. "Your friends have surely long deserted you now. Call on the gods themselves if you wish, but if it is written that you shall die today, then prayers cannot change that fate."

Desmond was perplexed. Making the ancestor call out for Rebecca, Shaun, and William was surely not in accordance with history. __So why didn't I desynchronize? They must've done some system upgrade that lets me get away with stretching events a little further from what the DNA recorded. And the upgrade somehow fucked up and took away my HUD, so I don't have a map or SSI or anything. Great work, Rebecca, just great.__ He tried to at least open the database to find out who he was supposed to be, but he discovered he couldn't get to the Animus menu at all!

"Seriously, I need help, guys!" he yelled into the sky. "I can't exit! The menu's gone!"

All this accomplished was making the other prisoners look at him like he was crazy, and making the driver tell them to shut up again.

__Shit, can they not hear me? Is the fucking monitoring system shut down again? Do I have to find another stupid synch nexus to get outta here? But then why would I be in a new ancestor instead of Connor? And, shit, Clay's not here this time. I might get deleted by that stupid failsafe. Shit shit shit.__

Engrossed in these thoughts, Desmond hadn't noticed the halting of the carriage and the exiting of the other passengers. Now there was another soldier, who reached out and angrily tugged at his arm to pull him off the cart. Desmond found himself falling forward onto the dirt. The soldier made a growl of annoyance at this, and yanked him back to his feet.

Filing along with the other prisoners toward whatever fate awaited them, Desmond wiped dirt from his face with the backs of his bound hands. As he did so, he thought he felt something familiar, and then ran a finger along the ancestor's lips to confirm it. __Huh, this guy's got the same scar as Altaïr, Ezio, and me. But Connor and Haytham didn't. What does the scar mean? Does it mean anything? Is it just a hell of a coincidence?__

It was at that point that Desmond noticed something that sent confusion and chills up his spine.

The left arm of the thin and dirty garment his ancestor was wearing had been torn in the struggle with the guard and the ensuing fall. Underneath the threadbare cloth was a tattoo.

An awfully familiar tattoo.

__What the fuck?__ Wrists still bound, he turned his arms to get a better look at it. __This ancestor has the exact same tattoo as me! That's way too freakishly specific to be a coincidence! How the hell... Is this some kinda... reverse Bleeding Effect? Somehow my ancestor thinks that he's me? Is that even possible?__

Desmond's thoughts were interrupted by the booming voice of a swordswoman clad in steel and leather. "Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."

The blonde man leaned toward Desmond and muttered, "Empire loves their damn lists."

Another soldier, in lighter armor, with a quill and notebook, called out, "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."

Ignoring the roll call, Desmond returned to pondering what the hell was happening. This ancestor had his scar and tattoo. How much further did the resemblance go? He lifted his hands and felt his head. __He has my same hairstyle.__ He plucked a small curl from his scalp and examined it, mouth slightly agape. __It's the same length and color as mine, too. It's almost like he's my clone. But he's a thousand years before my time, so if anything, I'd be __**_**_his_**_**__ clone, wouldn't I?__

Desmond didn't even notice the arrow chunking noisily into the thief he'd spoken to earlier.

__But cloning wouldn't explain the tattoo... The only other explanation is... I've actually traveled back in time?!__

It didn't seem possible. But then again, he'd seen a lot of impossible shit these past few months. And it certainly would explain why there wasn't any Animus menu available.

"Ahem!" Desmond's eyes, glazed over in thought, refocused on the bookkeeper-soldier who had cleared his throat. "Who are you?"

__Who am I? Shit. I suppose I'm __**_**_me_**_**__.__ Still discombobulated from whatever the fuck was going on, he couldn't think of an alias, and so gave his real name. "Desmond Miles."

"Hm. You're a long way from the Imperial City." The bookkeeper turned to the swordswoman. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

"Forget the list!" she barked. "He goes to the block!"

"By your orders, Captain."

Desmond began to sweat. __Shit shit shit! If this really __**_**_isn't_**_**__ the Animus, then I'm __**_**_not_**_**__ guaranteed to live until I procreate!__


	3. My Ancestors Are Smiling At Me

_Fuck fuck fuck, how am I gonna get outta this?_ Desmond mentally flailed about as he was herded into a group of similarly helpless people, all scheduled for execution.

But at the same time, another part of his mind told him to shut up and accept his fate. He'd been prepared to die, hadn't he? He'd chosen to sacrifice himself. One life versus billions: it was a no-brainer. Maybe the Eye just had kind of a roundabout way of doing things. Maybe there was some reason it sent him back in time to get killed instead of just killing him there. Maybe somehow that's how the First Civilization had finally solved their dilemma.

_But wait, if they could time travel, why did they go through all that trouble with hiding messages in my genetic memory? Why not just pop into 2012 and say "hey here's how you stop the sun from killing everything"? Maybe only I can time travel, because I'm the fucking chosen one or whatever. Or maybe time travel only works for going backward in time, not forward. Who the fuck knows? I'm gonna be dead no matter what, so what does it matter?_

Yes, Desmond had chosen sacrifice. Nevertheless, he didn't want it to go down like this. But it seemed there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing but stand and wait for his inevitable death.

An imposing soldier, with a large sword at his belt- General Tullius, Desmond was told by a fellow prisoner- began addressing the gagged man. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Ulfric growled through the fabric tied around his mouth.

Tullius continued his rant. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!"

A low screeching howl echoed through the otherwise quiet air. Soldiers and prisoners alike lifted their heads in alarm.

"What was that?" asked the bookkeeper.

"It's nothing. Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," said the Imperial Captain, turning to another woman, dressed in brown hooded robes. "Give them their last rites."

The priestess spread her arms wide and began to speak in a voice that carried clearly across the courtyard. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and lets get this over with!" griped a prisoner, stepping forward from the others.

The priestess lowered her arms, obviously miffed at her invocation's interruption. "As you wish."

"Come on, I haven't got all morning." The prisoner was shoved onto the execution block. "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"

Desmond squeezed his eyes shut for this next part. His stomach lurched as he heard the sickening chop of the headsman's axe. He'd seen plenty of people killed- hell, he'd even killed his fair share- but that didn't mean he was unaffected by it. And death by beheading was far more gruesome than death by poison, gun, or Hidden Blade.

"You Imperial bastards!" shrieked a woman.

"Justice!" a man called in response.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!" cried another woman.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Desmond's cartmate said, relatively unperturbed by the situation.

"Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!"

Hearing a repeat of the eerie noise from earlier, Desmond reopened his eyes. Whatever it was, it sounded louder this time.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?"

The swordswoman clearly didn't care for such distractions. "I said, next prisoner!"

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

Desmond was shoved forward. _Oh shit! I'm next already?!_ Thoughts of home, family, and friends flashed through his mind as uncaring hands escorted him roughly to the chopping block.

A foul stench invaded his nostrils, either from the stout executioner, or from his huge axe, nearly as tall as Desmond. The metal itself seemed to be red, so thoroughly was the blade covered with layers of blood and grime.

Then a foot was in his back and he was forced to his knees, and for a split second he was eye-to-eye with the severed head of that fearless prisoner who'd preceded him in death, but he couldn't bear the sight and he turned his gaze away, gears fruitlessly spinning in his brain, hoping against hope that there might still be some way to escape.

However, those gears soon slowed and halted. _This is it. No way out. I was born to die. It's in my DNA. This is my sacrifice. Even though I didn't choose this time-travel weirdness, I did choose this fate._

Everything was stillness for a brief moment.

Desmond was about to close his eyes and turn his last thoughts to his parents when another roar sounded from out of the sky and he saw a jagged dark shape against the clouds.


	4. Enter The Dragon

Desmond blinked. In the split second before his eyes reopened, the thing in the sky jumped terrifyingly closer to him.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" shouted General Tullius.

Desmond thought the word "dragon" but no, that was impossible.

"Sentries! What do you see?" the captain's strident voice demanded.

_Genetic memories, sure, mind control, yeah, time travel, maybe, with sufficiently advanced technology, but motherfucking dragons Do. Not. Exist._

"It's in the clouds!" squawked a panicky soldier.

_Motherfucking dragons **never** existed. Not in the twenty-first century, not in the twelfth century, not in **any** goddamn century!_

The thing that was not a dragon, that could not possibly be a dragon, but which really, really, **really** looked like a motherfucking dragon, had now landed on the tower behind the chopping block. A shockwave of compressed air whooshed down, knocked the executioner on his fat ass, and blasted small pieces of dirt into Desmond's face. He coughed, and the stench of bloody death filled his mouth again.

Using that enormous axe as leverage, the executioner struggled back up, but before he could get to his feet, the impossible creature opened its massive jaws and there was another shockwave, more powerful than before. He fell backwards again, his hefty torso trapping Desmond's legs. Desmond kicked frantically to free himself from the dead weight.

"A dragon!" yelled someone, and Desmond was a tiny bit relieved to know that he wasn't the only one that had gone insane here.

"Don't just stand there, kill that thing!" commanded Tullius. "Guards-" The rest of his words were drowned out when another burst of air emanated from the maybe-it-actually-is-a-dragon's mouth.

Then someone was grabbing Desmond, pulling him out from under the dead headsman. He squinted through the maelstrom of dust and managed to recognize that blonde-braided prisoner. "Come on," he said, beckoning Desmond forward, "the gods won't give us another chance! This way!" He turned and ran across the disorderly plaza. Desmond followed breathlessly, stepping around broken bodies of prisoners and soldiers, until they were in the relative safety of another stone tower.

Two of the other prisoners were already there: the one who'd awoken Desmond in the first place, and that well-dressed man, now ungagged.

"Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?" asked the blonde in a low and frightened growl.

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric responded coolly.

"But dra-" Desmond squeaked, then cleared his throat and began again, trying to keep his voice slightly more composed. "But dragons aren't real!"

The others just looked at him worriedly, silently saying, "We thought the same."

There was a loud crash from outside, like a building had just collapsed. Ulfric took the lead, telling the other three, "We need to move, now!"

The blonde nodded with determination. "Let's go! This way, friend!" He pointed behind Desmond at a spiral staircase that lined the circular tower. "Move!"

Desmond didn't need to be told twice. He jogged up the stairs two at a time, but suddenly a gout of rocky debris and flames burst not a foot in front of him. Time seemed to freeze as he fell back against the stone wall, absolutely thunderstruck by what he saw before his eyes.

There was no doubt about it. It was really a motherfucking dragon. Fire breath and all. Annihilating everything in its path.

As the flames dissipated, Desmond saw that the teeth were jet black and wickedly sharp, the tongue equally dark and devious. His heart stopped for several seconds when he saw himself reflected in the wild red orb of the dragon's left eye, and he pressed his body closer against the curved wall behind him, trying to shrink into invisibility.

After an agonizing period during which Desmond couldn't decide whether to run back down the stairs or curl into a sobbing ball on the floor, the dragon flew off to wreak havoc somewhere else for the time being. He inhaled a deep shaky breath, and a brief thought flitted through his mind about how this was yet another goddamn near-death experience he could add to his list. He continued up the stairs but was soon blocked by the debris that was the aftermath of the dragon's attack.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was the blonde, and he pointed with his other hand out the newly-created hole in the wall. "See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We'll follow you when we can!"

Jumping. This, at least, was something Desmond was familiar with, unlike dragons and Stormcloaks and whatnot. However, he usually jumped with unbound hands, allowing him full use of his arms for balance, so it was a little trickier this time. He hopped up onto the ledge, flung himself through the smoke-filled air, rolled across splintery floorboards, and nearly busted his head on a wooden pillar. The thatched roof was on fire and perilously close to his head, so he lowered himself into a crouch and hopped down to the ground floor as soon as possible. He looked behind him, but his fellow prisoners were nowhere to be seen. _Shit, they said they'd follow me. Well, what now?_ He spun around, trying to decide which way he should go.

_That way?_ He saw the telltale shadow of the dragon.

_This way?_ Flames blocked the door.

_Well, I guess that just leaves one option._ He left the inn through the only remaining exit, dodging a landslide of superheated rocks. A frightened child careened into his path and Desmond swerved to avoid him, then followed the boy, figuring he might have some idea of a safe place to go.

"Haming, get over here, now!" shouted a familar voice: the bookkeeper-soldier who'd read out the names of the condemned. Desmond and the boy ran to join him, crouching in the somewhat-shelter of a niche between two collapsed buildings.

"Hadvar, I'm scared!" the boy cried, hugging the soldier's knees.

"It's all right, Haming. Just keep out of the way, we'll protect you," Hadvar said with obviously faked certainty.

Just then Desmond felt goosebumps rising on his skin. Something made him look up just in time to see that hellish monster swooping down from the sky towards their position. "We gotta move!" he yelled to the others. "It's coming this way!"

Only then did Hadvar seem to actually notice Desmond. "Prisoner, keep close to me if you want to stay alive!" he said, sounding much more like a soldier now than a bookkeeper. He pushed Haming towards an almost-bald man who was with them. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense." He charged back into the fray.

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," Gunnar said solemnly. "And you as well," he added, giving Desmond a shove. Then the old man and the boy ran off to evade the murderous sky beast.

Desmond ran after Hadvar, his feet seeming to move automatically, powered by pure fear. As they ran, he found his mind trying again to figure out what had happened, where he was, how he'd gotten there. _Maybe I really did die after all, and this is some sort of freakish afterlife. I never believed in that sorta stuff, but it's either that, or the Eye voiped me away to some alternate universe._

"It won't die! It just keeps coming!" someone shouted.

_I guess alternate universes could exist, right? Wait, no, I **know** they exist. Minerva's what-do-you-call-'ems... Calculations. Like the universe where I'm a mechanic in Chicago, or a waiter in San Francisco._

"Stay close to the wall," advised Hadvar, indicating a massive barricade of rough-hewn bricks. "I don't think it can see us here." Desmond followed this advice.

_If this is another universe... then is there a way to get back to my own? But then again, maybe this place isn't even real. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe I've finally lost all my marbles from that goddamned Bleeding Effect. Maybe I'm really- what was that phrase Clay used? ...drooling and chewing on my tongue._

_So... I'm in Hell, I'm in an alternate universe, or I'm insane. Pick your poison._

His train of thought was derailed by a heavy crashing sound. The midday sunlight was suddenly blocked. He felt that same eerie chill from before, and slowly tilted his head up.

Sure enough, the dragon was perched right on the very wall they were trying to hide behind. Its wingspan was easily longer than a Brooklyn subway car. Desmond called on all his stealth training, slowing his breath, willing his heart to beat quieter, keeping every muscle motionless.

An otherworldly sound rumbled deep in the body of the dragon, and half a second later, fire flowed out from its mouth, incinerating four archers who'd been firing at it. Then it flew off again before their bodies had even hit the ground.

Desmond was still gaping at the scene when Hadvar grabbed his arm and began running again. "Quickly, follow me!"

Still bound and unarmed, Desmond had pretty much no other option, so he followed Hadvar through yet more destroyed sections of the town. His feet were beginning to ache. _Wish I'd been able to bring my sneakers along to whatever this place is, instead of these shitty worn-out leather rags._

They reached a wide open plaza ringed by smoky piles of flaming wood, and were greeted by an upset General Tullius. "Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier! We're leaving!"

A barrage of air knocked Desmond off his feet as the dragon swooped overhead, and he heard a raspy voice cry out, "Tell my family I fought bravely!"

"Come on, prisoner, stay close!" Hadvar pulled Desmond back up and through a stone gate, but soon stopped, staring daggers at a familiar face. "Ralof!" the soldier growled. "You damned traitor. Out of my way!"

Ralof was the stoic blonde prisoner from earlier. Now he was armed with an iron axe and looked quite imposing. Fiery reflections danced in his eyes. "We're escaping, Hadvar. And you can't stop us."

"Fine!" Hadvar barked. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Another booming roar cascaded over them, shaking the very ground. All three men jerked their heads up to watch the dragon glide menacingly past.

"You!" Ralof said, beckoning for Desmond to follow him again. "Come on, into the keep!" Then he headed toward a sturdy stone fort.

Hadvar dissented. "No, with **me**, prisoner! Let's go!" He was standing at another door to the same building, but further away.

Wasting no time, Desmond simply rushed to the nearest door, which happened to be Ralof's. "Through here, friend! Let's go!"


	5. Ally and Enemy

The moment Desmond was inside, Ralof slammed the heavy door shut behind them. Desmond stepped forward cautiously, taking in the strange decor of the keep: a terribly uneven stone floor covered with moss and a grimy rug, a dark tapestry of black and red, a few mounted animal heads - bear, elk, and _holy shit there's a dead guy in here!_

Ralof noticed the corpse as well. He knelt down reverently to close the man's eyes. "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother."

"You know this guy?" Desmond asked. In his current frazzled state of mind, he couldn't think of a more respectful way to phrase the question.

Ralof stood and turned to face Desmond proudly. "I know not his name, but, by his armor, it is clear that he and I fought for the same cause: the freedom of Skyrim."

_Freedom from what, exactly?_ Desmond wondered, but there were more pressing issues at hand right now. "I thought we went in here to escape the dragon," he said, stumbling a little on the d-word. "But it looks like your 'brother' wasn't super safe in here."

Ralof's brows twitched. Kneeling again, he looked closer at the body. "Worry not, friend," he said in a rough tone. "It appears he was wounded in battle against an earthbound enemy, not one from the skies of Oblivion." He moved the man's arm so Desmond could see a deep gash. "That he succumbed to his injuries here rather than outside speaks not to the safety of this keep."

At this, Desmond relaxed, but only a little.

Ralof took a seat in a wooden chair near the dead man and fingered the handle of his axe. "That thing was a dragon. No doubt. Just like the children's stories and the legends!" He didn't sound scared at all. In fact, he sounded almost excited. "The harbingers of the End Times!"

"End Times, huh," Desmond said idly, eying the wall tapestry. The red shape weaved into the black background seemed to be a dragon. He was about to ask a question about that when Ralof spoke again.

"We better get moving. Come here. Let me cut you loose from those bindings."

"Oh, cool." Desmond had almost forgotten his hands were tied. He held them out to Ralof, who produced a dagger and sawed through the rope. "Thanks."

"You probably want to get out of those prisoner clothes as well." Ralof nodded to the dead man. "You may as well take his gear. He won't be needing it anymore."

"Uh, yeah." Desmond stammered, crouching down on the floor. He hesitated a moment. This somehow felt a lot more real, a lot more wrong, than looting a corpse in the Animus ever had. And, well... Ezio and Connor had never actually taken **clothes** from a dead person. _But then again, I was just hoping for real shoes a few minutes ago, wasn't I?_ He held his breath and tugged the boots from the man's stiff feet, then slipped them on himself, fighting back the thought of corpse cooties. _I'll wash 'em out real good as soon as I get the chance._

"Here, I'll help you with the armor," Ralof said.

"No thanks!" Desmond said. "I. Uh. I mean the boots are one thing, but..."

Ralof stared, waiting for the end of his sentence.

"It seems... y'know, disrespectful to leave him here naked."

"Ah," Ralof said with a hearty nod. "Of course. However, you'd do well to take his weapon, at least. No telling what we'll encounter on our way out of here. Best to stay armed."

Desmond rolled the man over and pulled the axe from his belt loop. "On our way out of here?" he repeated quizzically.

"Keeps like these usually have an escape passageway in case of siege. Should lead far away from that dragon and those Imperials. Try that door." Ralof pointed.

Desmond tried to open the wrought iron gate on one side of the room, but it was locked. Ralof found the same was true of the wooden gate on the opposite side. "Damn, no way out."

Just then, some figures appeared in the hallway past the wooden gate. "It's the Imperials!" Ralof hissed. "Take cover!"

They took up positions on either side of the doorway as armored footsteps clanked toward them. Desmond heard the Imperial Captain order her men to "Get this gate open!"

Ralof took out his axe.

A few moments later, the wooden gate slid down into the floor and three soldiers burst into the room. "Imperial dogs!" Ralof shouted, running at them mercilessly.

Desmond stayed frozen in shock. Trained fighter though he was, he still didn't want to start attacking people without knowing why.

He couldn't stay pacifist for long, though, because one of the soldiers- the most heavily armored one, just his luck- was now coming towards him. Desmond nimbly sidestepped the sword as it was thrust forward and took a firm grip on his newly-aquired axe, then swung it, blunt edge first, down on the attacker's hand.

The soldier grunted and involuntarily dropped his sword. Desmond grinned. _Disarming. Always a useful move, no matter what universe you're in._

The grin enraged the soldier, though, and he made to swing a fist at Desmond. Acting on instinct, Desmond spun the axe around and sliced into the soldier's hand, drawing blood and a cry of furious pain. The soldier kicked and Desmond didn't quite dodge out of the way in time, and a steel boot connected with his leg, tripping him backwards onto the mossy stone.

Now the soldier was the one grinning. He grabbed his sword back and was about to stab it downwards into Desmond's belly when Ralof threw a leather shield across the room. It smacked the Imperial soldier in the back and distracted him for a moment.

Just for a moment. But a moment was all Desmond needed. He got nimbly back to his feet and darted behind the soldier, then drew the keen edge of the axe across his throat. A gurgling rush of blood, and he was dead on the floor.

Desmond panted and looked to Ralof. "Thanks for the save."

"Anytime, friend." He gestured to the fallen Imperials. "Does your respect for the dead extend to these dogs as well?"

"Well... that does look like some pretty sweet armor," Desmond said.

"Though it is **Imperial** armor," Ralof said with a sneer, "it would at least afford better protection than your current attire. Take it, then, as a prize well earned in battle."

Desmond briefly picked over the three bodies before shucking off the itchy shirt he'd been wearing so far, slipping on a leather-and-chainmail tunic, then finishing off the ensemble with a pair of steel bracers. "Hmm, these bracers have that same dragon symbol," he said, jerking a thumb at the tapestry behind him.

Ralof greeted this observation with an odd look. "But of course."

Desmond realized he must have said something that was stupidly obvious to anyone native to this world, and bashfully stuffed his hands in the pockets of his tunic. "Oh hey." He pulled one hand out. "This guy had a key. Y'think it opens that over there?" He pointed to the metal gate.

The key did in fact open it. "That's it!" Ralof hooted eagerly. "Come on, let's get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads."

They proceeded down a wide set of stairs, gently curving in a semicircle. There was less light in this part of the keep, and Desmond blinked and squinted, trying to adjust to the relative darkness. _Hm, I wonder if..._ He flipped the mental switch to turn on his Eagle Vision. Both Ralof's aura and his own were blue. _Does that mean they have Assassins in this world, and he's one of them, or one of their allies? Or does it just mean he's a good guy in general?_

A terrifyingly familiar roar interrupted his thoughts. "Look out!" Ralof shouted, and they leapt backwards, narrowly escaping being buried under tons of stone as part of the ceiling collapsed.

"Damn, that dragon doesn't give up easy."

Desmond turned off Eagle Vision, since it tended to give him a headache if he used it too long. "Give up on what? What does he even **want**?"

"Nothing but chaos and destruction, if the legends are true," Ralof said, brushing dust from his face.

Desmond was about to ask for more detail on these legends, but was startled by a gruff voice from a door to their left. "Grab everything important and let's move! The dragon is burning everything to the ground."

"Ready to fight some more Imperials?" Ralof said to Desmond, his voice a quiet rumble.

Desmond opted not to reply, and hoped he wasn't getting off to a bad start in this new universe by siding with Ralof. _He said he fought for freedom, right? Here's hoping that's true, and he's not some maniac serial killer I'm aiding and abetting._

Ralof slowly pushed the door open and they made their way inside. This room was a spacious and homey sort of place, with a dining area, a crackling fireplace, and game birds hung up alongside fragrant herbs. Desmond barely had time to remember he was hungry before he heard Ralof's yell of "Freedom or Sovngarde!", followed by clashing steel.

_Hasn't this guy heard of sneaking up on your enemies?_ Desmond sighed and ran to join the fight.

* * *

><p>Desmond's current gear, in case you're interested (NERD XD) - Studded Imperial Armor, Imperial Bracers, Fur Boots, Iron War Axe<p>

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers: Apparition of a Fox, Pyro, ElizabethRedlightVirusGreene, skilletfan93, Hack Generation, and last but not least, XXXtheGODgood


	6. Do You Believe In Magic?

The axe, heavier and less streamlined than the tomohawk Ratonhnhaké:ton had used, felt unwieldy in Desmond's hands, so as soon as these latest two foes were dealt with, he exchanged weapons with one of them. A sword. Yes. Swords he had far more experience with.

He held onto a small dagger as well. _I don't have my Hidden Blade, but this is about the same size, so it'll be the next best thing if I need to do any stealth kills._

"See if you can find some potions," Ralof said. "We'll need them."

"Potions?" Desmond repeated dubiously. _What is this, fucking Dungeons & Dragons? Well... there sure as hell's a dragon out there, and this sure as hell looks like a dungeon in here. Maybe this is what really happens when you die: You get voiped to RPG land._

On one of the shelves, he found a small blue bottle, and held it up to show Ralof.

"Magicka potion?" Ralof said with derision. "Do I look like a pansy magic-user to you? Here, this is what we need." He tossed Desmond a slightly larger bottle with red liquid sloshing inside.

Desmond tucked the potion away in his pocket and grabbed a hunk of bread from the table. It was cold and a little stale, but he was hungry enough that it didn't matter.

"There's more stamina and health potions in here," called Ralof, who was rummaging through a barrel. "If you're done with your snack, let's get moving."

Desmond swallowed the last fragment of bread and followed Ralof through another dimly-lit hallway. Sounds of anguish and fighting echoed towards them. They rounded a corner and Ralof gasped. "Troll's blood! It's a torture room!" He ran ahead, axe raised. "For Ulfric and Skyrim!"

A skeleton was chained to one wall, and incredibly rusty metal cages lined another. But what drew Desmond's attention most of all was the wrinkly old man fighting Ralof and a man and woman in similar armor. His attacks didn't come from weapons, but from blazing sparks of energy he was flinging at the Stormcloaks.

Unnoticed by the fighters for now, Desmond hung back and stared. _Holy fuck. Magic. He's using magic. Dragons exist here, and magic exists here too. This is one hell of an alternate universe!_

"Don't just stand there!" Ralof yelled. The magic-user spun around to see who Ralof was talking to, and raised one hand, the fingers crackling with what looked like blue lightning. Desmond froze in shock, but a second later, he experienced a literal shock as the lightning crackled into his body. He cried out in pain and jerked out of the path of the spell, grabbing his chest where it felt like he'd just been electrocuted. The burning sensation dissolved into numbness after a moment, and then without thinking, Desmond's hand was on his sword and he was rushing forward and slashing, slashing, slashing, until the old man lay dead on the floor.

Desmond panted heavily and rubbed his chest again until the feeling started to return.

One of the other Stormcloaks gave him an approving thump on the back. "A fine fighter, this one."

"Is Jarl Ulfric with you?" Ralof asked her.

She shook her head. "No, I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up."

"Wait a second. Looks like there's some gold in this cage." Ralof tried the cage door, then turned to Desmond. "Do you know how to pick locks?"

"Yeah."

"Good, because I don't. I found some picks on one of the Imperials." Ralof pulled a mess of lockpicks from his pocket and handed them to Desmond. "We'll need that gold once we get out."

The cage was open in less than twenty seconds.

"Amazing!" one of the Stormcloaks said.

"Are you a thief, then? Is that what you were arrested for?" asked Ralof.

Desmond smiled. "Nah, I just have a lot of various skills."

They divvied up the scattered gold among the four of them. There was a dead man inside the cage as well, and Desmond poked in the pockets of his robe, finding a few more coins and another blue potion. He discovered the man's hood was unconnected to his robe, and on a whim, he tried it on himself.

Ralof chuckled. "That hood rather suits you."

"Guess I'll keep it, then," Desmond said. _Can't be a proper Assassin without a hood._ It struck him then, how odd it was that he wanted to cling to his Assassin identity. Only a few short months ago, he'd never wanted to hear the words "Assassin" or "Templar" again. This new world afforded him the perfect opportunity to forget all that stuff. But instead he was equipping himself with a hood and a blade, without the slightest reluctance. _Well, a lot of things have happened in those months. Not least of which is I found out all that conspiracy stuff is actually true. My parents weren't crazy after all._ He stiffened, feeling a lump in his throat. _God, my parents... my friends... everybody... I haven't even been wherever this place is for an hour yet, and I miss them already._

Desmond blinked back tears. Attempting to get his mind off of the people he'd had to leave behind, he cast his gaze around the metal cell to check if there were any more coins. There weren't, but he did notice a small greenish-brown book partially covered by the dead man's robes. The cover didn't have any words on it, just a sort of illustration: something like a handprint made of flames. He picked up the book and thumbed it open to a random page.

The words didn't make any sense. _Huh. They speak English here, but this sure isn't English. It's not Arabic or Italian either. It's like... some sort of runes, or something. _He flipped to the first page, though not really expecting the words there to be any clearer. There was, however, one word he recognized. At the top, in bold centered text, was the single word "SPARKS". Under that, there were more weird swirls.

"Sparks... what the hell..." He trailed off. Something was making him dizzy. He blinked, and the swirls on the page seemed to shimmer and move. Was it his imagination, or was the book getting warmer? The dizziness intensified and his heart began to pound. Suddenly there was a low muffled sound like a distant clap of thunder and the book was gone.

"What the fuck?"

The three Stormcloaks turned to Desmond. "What?"

"There- there was this book..." He checked the cage floor to make sure he hadn't just dropped the thing. "It was all weird and then- I know this sounds crazy, but it just... disappeared!"

"When you read it?"

"Yeah, it just-"

"We don't have time to waste with spellbooks, Desmond," said Ralof testily. "We've got to keep moving."

Desmond blinked. "Spell..."

"You should have just taken it, we could have sold the thing," snipped the Stormcloak who'd praised his fighting skills earlier.

Desmond stared after them as they filed out of the torture room. _They don't think it's weird that the book vanished? This universe is gonna take some getting used to._ He took one last look around the room, scanning for anything useful. A knapsack lay against a stone pillar. He grabbed it, transferred his potion and lockpicks into it, then slung it over his back and followed his fellows.

They trudged in silence further down into the depths of Helgen Keep. Desmond couldn't help but keep thinking about that book. _Spellbook, Ralof called it. A book of spells. Spells of magic._ He looked at his hand, recalling how the man he'd just fought had generated hot blue sparks to attack him with. _Sparks. That's what the spellbook said. Sparks. Were those swirly symbols the instructions on how to do that? How to shoot magic sparks at people?_ He wiggled his fingers experimentally. Nothing happened. He sighed. _Of course nothing happened. Because I couldn't understand the fucking directions._ He put his hand back on the handle of the sword at his belt. _Who needs magic spells anyway? I'm a wizard at fighting with normal methods. Sword, throwing knife, hand-to-hand, guns... though this world doesn't look like it's got the technology for guns quite yet._

"I hope someone knows where we're going," Ralof said quietly from in front of him. They eventually reached another torture chamber, and the torchlight behind the cages cast eerie shadows on the walls.

"You were with us on the carts, weren't you?" the Stormcloak woman asked Desmond. "Not your lucky day, huh?"

"I'm still alive, so I'd count that as lucky," he answered, and she smirked.

A rough break in the stone walls opened into a rocky cavern. Large freestanding bronze sconces held blazing coals to illuminate their way. Desmond briefly wondered who had lit them, but decided not to voice the question. The foursome continued through the foggy dimness until Ralof, on point, raised a hand for them to stop.

Voices echoed from somewhere ahead of them. "...orders are to wait until General Tullius arrives," a stern middle-aged man was saying.

"I'm not waitin' to be killed by a dragon!" another man said fiercely.

"You'll be killed by me, then!" Ralof roared, leaping out of the shadows at him, axe swinging.

The two other Stormcloaks charged in after him. "I'll water the ground with your blood!" taunted the woman. "You won't take us alive!" screamed the man.

Desmond was too busy fending off attacks to think of any good battle cries. Two soldiers had him flanked on a short wooden staircase, which wobbled under the weight of the trio. He danced just out of reach of a mace aimed toward his head, and swung his sword up at the attacker's unarmored bicep, landing a solid blow. But the one behind him then stabbed into his torso, and Desmond flinched at the sharp pain. _Damn, real wounds hurt a hella lot more than Animus ones! Guess it's got some sorta pain filter on it or something?_ he thought, jabbing his elbow back blindly to deter further stabbings. His elbow connected with only empty air, and he felt himself losing his balance from the sudden movement. But he quickly decided he could use that to his advantage, and spun around mid-fall to land atop one of the soldiers, pinning him. Before the soldier could get his wits back, Desmond had pulled out his dagger, and in one fluid and timeless movement, he thrust the blade through a gap in the Imperial armor. Then he snapped his attention to the soldier with the mace, who was fighting with his off-hand now, due to Desmond's demolition of his favored arm. Desmond easily parried the clumsy strikes and soon defeated this soldier as well.

"Requiescat in pace," he said smugly to the two fallen Imperials.


	7. What Now?

An arrow whizzed through the air, barely missing Desmond's ear. He spun around, Eagle Vision coming on automatically. On the far side of the underground battlefield, he spotted a figure in red armed with a longbow, who was prepping another shot. Desmond quickly strafed sideways to hide behind a stone column, then popped briefly out from cover to hurl his steel dagger.

The projectile found its target in the archer's chest, easily piercing the leather, though not going deep enough to be fatal. However, he was fazed enough by it that he didn't see a burly blonde coming up from behind to finish him off. "Hah! We fight well together, Desmond!" Ralof crowed, his voice resounding across the stone chamber, where the bodies of six Imperial soldiers now lay sprawled and unmoving.

"Fuck yeah! That's what I call teamwork!" Desmond called back, pumping a fist in the air. He crossed the chamber and bent down to get his dagger, but then winced and let out a small "Ah", darting a hand to his back. His fingers touched torn leather and bleeding flesh, the spot where he'd been stabbed by one of the soldiers.

"You're wounded!" Ralof approached him. "Let me see it."

"I don't think it's too bad, is it?" Desmond said. _Sure hope it doesn't need medical attention. The doctors in this world are probably still using leeches or whatever._

Ralof prodded the injury with tender fingers. "The muscles are severed. If left to heal on its own, it will mend poorly. You should use that potion."

"Um, yeah. The health potion." Desmond opened his knapsack and got out the flask of red liquid. He tilted it back and forth a couple of times, watching the substance sloshing around. _Is this really gonna work? Am I supposed to drink it or, like, pour it on where I'm hurt?_

One of the other Stormcloaks cleared his throat impatiently. "Are you going to drink it or just look at it?"

_That answers that, then._ "Alright, I'm drinking it, sheesh." Desmond popped the cork from the neck of the bottle and slugged down the contents.

The health potion had an odd meaty taste, like very undercooked beef, but in liquid form somehow. Not like water, though. Kind of like runny cream. Or milk. Yes. It was like undercooked beef with the consistency of milk. Desmond put that gross image out of his mind when he felt a tingling in his skin where he'd been stabbed. He reached around to check what was happening and felt the same rip in his armor, and traces of congealing blood, but no actual wound anymore. "Woah. Far out," he said quietly.

"We'll keep watch in case Ulfric comes through here," said the Stormcloak woman. "Talos guide the both of you."

Desmond retrieved his dagger, dipped it and his sword in a small stream that cut through the underground room to cleanse them of blood, then hung them back on his belt and followed Ralof into an arched passageway and over a drawbridge.

Another earth-shaking roar from the dragon came just as they'd passed the bridge, bringing a massive pile of stones down behind them. "No going back that way now," Ralof said impassively. "We'd better push on. The rest of them will have to find another way out."

Desmond tried his best not to be worried by the human remains he kept seeing as they picked their way unsteadily further on through the cave. Dim blue light filtered through scattered holes in the rock above them, and cold water splashed at their feet when they had to traverse a stream.

Suddenly Desmond yelped in surprise and pointed. "Holy shit, giant spiders!" The spiders heard the yelp and began scuttling creepily towards the two men.

Ralof grunted and took out his axe. "I hate these damn things!" he shouted as he sliced through one's bristly legs. "Too many eyes, you know?"

Desmond was flailing wildly at two spiders that had him trapped in a corner. "The eyes aren't really the part I'm having issues with!" He managed to chop the head off of one, then leapt at the other, piercing his sword vertically through its abdomen with a sickening **crunch**.

When at last the spiders were dealt with, they continued on for a short bit before Ralof fell into a crouch and whispered, "Hold up."

Desmond's mind raced. _What now? What could possibly be next after fire-breathing dragons and giant spiders?_

"There's a bear just ahead. See her?"

Desmond let out a relieved sigh._ It's just a bear. Not a freaky fantasy creature. And she's sleeping, not trying to claw my face off._

Ralof turned to him. "I'd rather not tangle with her right now. Let's try to sneak by. Just take it nice and slow, and watch where you step... Or if you're feeling lucky, you can take this bow. Might take her by surprise."

_Am I feeling lucky? _"Y'know, Ralof," Desmond breathed, "after everything I've been through today, I don't think I wanna push my luck any further. I'm pretty good at sneaking, so let's do that."

Ralof nodded, and the two of them crept silently through the darkness. At one point, the bear yawned, stretched, and got to her feet. Desmond froze stock still while she slowly padded around and finally curled back up to sleep again.

When at last they were well past her, Ralof let out the breath he'd been holding. "Whew. That was close."

"You're tellin' me." Desmond prodded at a pile of bones on the ground. "If we weren't so good at sneaking, we coulda easily ended up like these guys."

"Yes, my friend," Ralof said, clapping him on the back, "truly, sometimes the wisest choice in battle is to avoid the battle altogether."

Desmond grinned.

Presently they approached a tall crack in the wall of the cave, through which blew a cool breeze and swirls of snow. Ralof jogged towards it. "That looks like the way out! I knew we'd make it!"

"All right!" Desmond followed him eagerly through the long and narrow crevice until at last they arrived in blessed sunlight. Ralof stretched out his arms and breathed deeply of the fresh air, while Desmond simply stared across the vast landscape, drinking it all in. _This is the world I gotta live in now, huh?_

There were countless pine trees dusted with snow, stretching from right beside him to miles in the distance. A rolling mountain loomed huge in the distance, and tiny butterflies danced over tender green plants which sprouted alongside the footpath they walked.

_This place looks pretty nice, actually. When it's not being incinerated by a motherfucking dragon, that is._

As if reading his thoughts, Ralof pointed into the sky at something: the dragon was flying overhead, soaring away into the clouds. "There he goes."

"Yeah. Sure hope he doesn't come back."

Ralof grunted in acknowledgement.

Desmond looked up and down the path to see if anyone else was around, but saw no-one. "Do y'think your friends made it out alive?"

"No way to know. But this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We'd better clear out of here."

Desmond nodded. "Where to? I, uh, don't really have a place to stay."

"My sister Gerdur runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road." Ralof jerked a thumb to indicate the direction. "I'm sure she'd help you out."

"All right, lead the way."

"Actually, it's probably best if we split up."

Desmond made a small sound of distress in his throat at the prospect of being left to fend for himself suddenly.

Ralof laughed good-naturedly. "You're a natural warrior, Desmond. I trust you can survive on your own."

"But- but I'm, uh, new here." He remembered what Ralof had said to him after he first awoke: _"You were trying to cross the border, right?"_ "I'm not from, uh, Skyrim. So I don't know my way around."

"You can have my map, then." Ralof reached into a fold of his tunic. "I owe you that much, at least. I wouldn't have made it without your help today."

Desmond took the map, a square of folded-up paper. _Is this paper? It feels kinda weird for paper._ He rubbed a thumb over the edge. It was something soft and flexible, with a yellow tint. _Maybe its made outta some kind of animal skin._ "Thanks, man."

"You know, you should go to Windhelm and join the fight to free Skyrim. You've seen the true face of the Empire here today."

"Uh, yeah."

"If anyone will know what the coming of the dragon means, it's Ulfric."

"Olfrick, right." Desmond waved farewell as Ralof walked off, then unfolded the map to get his bearings.


	8. Finding My Way

Skyrim certainly was a vast country, if the scale of this map was anywhere near accurate. Desmond scanned over the named landmarks._ Haafingar, Dawnstar, Rorikstead, Whiterun, oh hello, there's Riverwood. That's where I'm headed. But where am I now?_ A bit below Riverwood, he spotted another familiar place name. _Helgen, that's where those Imperials took us, right?_ He looked back and forth from the map to his surroundings several times. _Huge-ass mountain over there, that's probably this "Throat of the World" thing. What a weird name. So, if that's there and I'm here, then I need to head north, which is this way._ He continued down the trail, rechecking his map several times to be sure he didn't get turned around.

He soon noticed the sun was dipping low in the sky. Using a technique he'd been taught back on the Farm, Desmond held up his hands above the horizon to measure the time left before sunset. _About... three hours, looks like. Better hope I get to Riverwood before then. I wouldn't be surprised if werewolves or some shit come out after dark_, he thought as he hustled along the rough path.

For now, at least, there wasn't anything trying to kill him. He was reassured by the familiar form of a fox that scampered across the path. _So they've got foxes and bears and butterflies here, same as my world. But they've also got dragons- or maybe just the one dragon, let's hope- and giant spiders, and who knows what else. Hello, what's this?_ He'd just rounded a bend in the path and spotted a stone platform covered with vines. However, it wasn't the platform or the vines which drew his attention, but the trio of oblong pillars, each with a hole drilled out near the top. As he came closer, he could make out humanoid figures engraved upon them.

He approached one and reached out to run a finger over the lines etched into the otherwise smooth stone. This one was the figure of a cloaked man with a dagger, depicted in an action pose. It almost reminded him of an Assassin leaping down onto a hapless target.

Then the lines began to shine a familiar electric blue. Desmond jumped back in surprise. "Woah! This is... First Civ tech?" He circled the pillar slowly, noticing the round hole was now filled with what looked like the same type of force field that had been inside the Grand Temple. Suddenly, a slight crackle broke the serene silence and a vertical beam shot upwards into the sky from the top of the pillar.

Before Desmond could ponder what the hell he'd activated this time, a voice from behind startled him. "Thief, huh?"

He spun around to face the new speaker. "What?" He had a feeling he'd be saying this word a lot in the coming days.

"I'm more of a warrior myself, but to each his own. You were one of the prisoners, right?" Desmond didn't have a chance to respond before the man continued. "So was I."

"Uhh... I don't remember seeing you- Wait, actually I kinda do. Wasn't your hair longer?"

The stranger laughed and pointed at his clumsily shorn locks. "My sweet dreads were set alight by one of those damned fire blasts. I had to chop off the burnt part once I got my hands on a blade because it stunk to Oblivion."

"Well. Good thing it only got your hair."

"A good thing indeed. My name's Kayd." The man stuck out a hand and Desmond shook it in greeting. "What did you say yours was? Miles?"

"Uh, yeah." He lowered his hood out of politeness. "Desmond Miles."

"Desmond Miles," Kayd repeated thoughtfully. "You **are** Imperial, aren't you." It wasn't really a question.

Desmond frowned. "Why do people keep thinking I'm an Imperial? Those guys sent me to the chopping block, remember?"

"Don't be daft, I don't mean 'Empire' Imperial. I mean 'Cyrodilic' Imperial."

_Sarah what now?_ This didn't clarify things at all. Desmond waited for further elaboration.

Kayd gestured at himself. "I'm Redguard, see?"

"Thought you said you were Kayd."

"No, my **race** is Redguard."

Desmond narrowed his eyes. "You look African-American to me."

"I look **what**?"

"You know... Black."

"Black?" The man chuckled and looked down at his hands. "Brown's what I'd call it."

Desmond facepalmed. Obviously he'd have to get used to nobody having any cultural knowledge of his world, even if they did speak largely the same language. "Okay, so Imperial and Redguard are races? And I look like an Imperial?"

"You look like one and you're named like one. You really aren't?" Kayd's brow wrinkled slightly. "Are you Breton, then? You're nowhere near fair enough to be Nord, and you for sure aren't an Orc or any type of elf."

Desmond filed away the fact that orcs and elves apparently existed. "I'm none of those."

"Then what-"

"What the hell does it matter what race I am anyway?!" Desmond spat, avoiding the question. Now that he'd explored his multicultural ancestry- Syrian, Italian, British, Native American, and those were just a small fraction of it, he was sure- he wasn't sure he'd feel comfortable classifying himself as simply "white". The term seemed ridiculously reductionistic. And Kayd wouldn't know what it meant anyway.

"You're obviously not from around these parts, Desmond, else you'd know."

"Well enlighten me then."

"Folks around here, and most places in Tamriel, will make assumptions regarding others based on their race," Kayd explained. "Loyalties often lie along racial lines. Enmities too."

Desmond sighed. Some things, it seemed, were the same no matter what world you were in. "Yeah, it's like that where I'm from too. Unfortunately."

"Ah, you're one of those progressive types." Kayd smiled. "I wish more folks were like you, Desmond... Where **are** you from, then?"

"Uh, you probably won't have heard of it, but it's a place called New York."

Kayd nodded. "You are correct, I haven't."

Desmond felt more than heard the approaching growl. He spun round, pulled out his dagger, and hurled himself at the wolf, who was surprised by the man's confident aggression. Before Kayd had even managed to unsheathe his sword, Desmond was wrenching the dagger from the dead animal's throat and wiping the blade on its matted fur.

Kayd whistled in awe. "You certainly made short work of him. Were you part of the Fighter's Guild in that New York place?"

"I had some combat training, yeah," Desmond said, "but there's no Fighter's Guild."

"You're ex-military, then?"

"Not really, no." Desmond wasn't ready to divulge anything about the Assassins just yet, if ever. Although he'd tentatively accepted the hypothesis of "alternate universe", there was a slight possibility that this place could be some sort of simulation, like another type of Animus. If that was the case, Abstergo could be monitoring everything he said, waiting for him to reveal information that could be used against the Brotherhood. Out of habit, he started skinning the wolf and used that as an opportunity to change the subject. "Hey, do you know of a store or something where I can sell this fur?"

"Riverwood Trader's probably still open." The man gestured behind him to the town across the river. "Come on, let's go together."

The two of them ambled along the cobblestone-and-dirt path towards the little village. "So, what are those pillars?" Desmond asked.

"Standing Stones," Kayd answered. "It's said they bestow blessings from the stars."

"Who put them there?"

"Nobody knows."

"Hm. Just always been there, huh?" _Yep, sure sounds like First Civ. Weird that they'd just be out in the open like that, not hidden away._

Kayd chuckled. "There are quite a few ancient and mysterious things in the land of Skyrim, so you'd best get used to that if you plan to be here any length of time."

"Hm," Desmond said again. "I don't really plan on staying, actually... but then again, I didn't plan on coming here at all, yet here I am. So who the fuck knows."

"You've certainly arrived here at a tumultuous time," Kayd said as they crossed over a babbling brook.

"Right when a dragon attacks, yeah."

"Things were tumultuous even before the appearance of the dragon, Desmond. Surely even the citizens of New York have heard of the Stormcloak rebellion?"

"Ehhh, a little bit," he wavered. "New York's pretty far off from here so we don't get all the details of Skyrim-related news, plus I've been traveling, so, y'know..."

They passed under a wide archway built of stone and wood. "Well, I'll give you a summation of events if you like. The trader's like to close up soon, though," Kayd gestured to a building on their right, "so you'd better go ahead and sell that fur first before we get to discussing politics."

Desmond exchanged the wolf fur for three gold coins. He had no idea if this was a fair price or not, but he hadn't felt up to haggling. He browsed around the shop briefly, but didn't see anything worth buying except some more of those neat health potions, which he couldn't afford. _I guess I'll need to get a job if I'm gonna be living here._

Kayd was leaning against a wheelbarrow waiting for Desmond when he came out of the shop. "Hey, uh, is there a halfway decent bar in this joint?"

"Bar? Bar of what?"

"Y'know, a place that sells booze."

"Booze?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, don't tell me you guys don't have alcohol?!"

At the word "alcohol", Kayd's confusion melted away. "Oh, you're looking to find a tavern!"

"Yes!" Desmond nodded ecstatically. "A tavern!"

"Why din't you just say as much?"

"They call 'em 'bars' where I'm from."

"Do they? Huh." Kayd gestured for Desmond to follow him. "Right, come on then. It's not a tavern proper, but the Sleeping Giant has Riverwood set for ale, mead, and the like."


	9. Food and a Feud

The Sleeping Giant Inn consisted mainly of a large open lodge type of room, the centerpiece of which was a rectangular stone firepit. The flames cast bold shadows across fur rugs on the floor, and a smattering of additional light was supplied here and there by small candles set in animal horns. Desmond detected a smoky meaty smell in the building, like overcooked barbecue. He and Kayd approached a wooden counter at one end of the room, behind which were large barrels and stacked wheels of cheese. Garlic, rabbits, and pheasants hung from a beam over the innkeeper's head. Desmond hoped the twenty-some gold coins he'd accumulated would be enough to buy a decent meal and a room for the night.

The innkeeper, a ruddy-faced man in a dirty green outfit, glowered at the two men. "We got rooms and food," he said gruffly. "Drink, too. I cook. Ain't much else to tell."

_Geez, great customer service, dude._ "What kinda food?" Desmond dared to ask.

"Roast goat, twelve gold. Pheasant breast, fourteen gold. Slaughterfish, sixteen gold," the man listed lazily.

"Ah, I haven't had goat in quite some time," Kayd said hungrily. "Two orders of goat, then, Desmond?"

"Uh, okay," Desmond said, still wondering what exactly a 'slaughterfish' was. "And can I get some of that cheese with it?"

"Cheese is sixteen extra."

"Oh. Never mind then."

Kayd glanced sideways at Desmond, intuiting his money woes. "Yes, forget the cheese. It looks off, anyway!" he said brightly.

The innkeeper frowned and set about preparing their food. Desmond leaned idly against a wooden pillar and listened to a whistly out-of-tune flute song someone was playing while he waited, mouth watering.

Two haunches of charred meat on oak planks were eventually served up. "Need anything else?" By his tone of voice, the innkeeper really hoped they didn't.

"I'm looking for work," Desmond said, trying to sound confident, like the sort of guy people would fall all over each other to hire.

The innkeeper grumbled and rummaged under the counter, then shoved a folded paper at him. "Here. Some of the Jarl's men came by and left this bounty letter."

"Uhh?" Desmond scanned the slanty handwriting. _Bandits located in Halted Stream Camp have been harassing, robbing, and attacking citizens..._ "Um, that's not what I meant by 'work', dude." He set the paper down. "I mean I'm looking for, like, a regular nine-to-five. Are you guys hiring? I've got experience serving drinks."

The innkeeper grunted and shook his head. "We don't need anyone."

"Not even temp, or part-time?"

Another grunt.

_Fine. I don't wanna work with an asshole like you anyway._ "Well, thanks for your time." Desmond paid for the food, definitely did **not** add a tip, then picked up his tray and took his leave of the rude man.

"Yer new here," observed a black-bearded man sitting at one of the rough-hewn wooden tables along the wall.

Desmond took a seat opposite him. "Yeah, just rolled into town."

"Ain't every day we get visitors in Riverwood. Name's Alvor."

"I'm Desmond." They shook hands. "So. What can you tell me about Riverwood?"

"Gerdur's family first settled here as wood cutters a few generations ago," Alvor drawled. "She and Hod run the mill. I make a decent living sharpening axes and fixing the sawmill."

_Fascinating._ Desmond nodded politely with a fake smile.

Kayd came to join them at the table, with two mugs on his platter, one of which he handed to Desmond. "Ale's on me, friend."

"Oh, thanks, man." Desmond took a trial sip. The ale was a little on the watery side, but otherwise not half bad. _It's also probably a whole lot more sanitary than a glass of this place's water would be._ They set about eating their roast goat. There weren't any napkins or silverware to be found, but it seemed Skyrim etiquette didn't require their use.

"You've worked a tavern, then?" Kayd said between bites. "You don't strike me as the kind of man who worked a tavern."

"I'm just full of surprises. You were gonna tell me about the Stormcloak stuff?"

"How much have you heard already?"

"Uh... they're fighting to free Skyrim from the Imperials. And they're led by that guy Olfrick."

"Damn that wretch to Oblivion!" put in Alvor, his words a bit slurred. "It ain't right, what he did to the King! How can the citizens of Windhelm stand to have him as their Jarl? He's a murderer, a cold-blooded assassin!"

This last word stirred a shiver inside of Desmond, but then he quickly reminded himself _He doesn't mean capital-A Assassin, he just means it generically, of course!_

Kayd's face seemed to indicate he disagreed with Alvor's assessment, but he managed to reply calmly. "Yes, there are many who call him a murderer. But there are also those who see what happened as a righteous duel, and they say Torygg lost fair and square."

Desmond chewed his goat leg in silence, hoping to stay out of the middle of this.

"Fair?! Hah! Ain't nothing **fair** about that sort of power!" Flecks of spit flew through the air at Alvor's "p" sound. "If he had a beef with Torygg, he shoulda solved it through dippa... displa... dispomacy!"

"You mean diplomacy?" Desmond asked with a smirk.

"S'what I said... dispomacy." Alvor snorted noisily and took another generous gulp of whatever he was drinking.

"What kind of power are we talking about?"

Kayd's eyes glistened. "They say he used the awesome power of the Voice. He studied for years to master that ability!"

"Studied! Hah!" Alvor cackled and swayed on the bench. "Sold his soul to a Daedra, if you ask me."

"Deedra?" Desmond attempted.

"Yes, Daedra! A power like that could only come from the depths of Oblivion!" Alvor thundered, the words running together slightly.

"You couldn't be more wrong!" Kayd shot back. "Ulfric says the power of the Voice lies within all true sons of Skyrim! One only has to learn, to put in the effort-"

"That coward is no son of Skyrim!" Alvor was nearly yelling now. "If he cared for his country and his people, he'd abide by the Concordat!"

"Abandon his god, you mean, and lick the boots of the elves?" Kayd asked pointedly.

"The Talos ban saddens me, yes," Alvor acknowledged, "but it wasn't truly enforced until Ulfric started agitating about it! And now the Thalmor roam across Skyrim, rooting out Talos worship as if it was necromancy! Ulfric and his ilk should have left well enough alone!" He slammed a fist into the table to drive home his point.

Just as Kayd opened his mouth to issue a rebuttal, Desmond held up his hands between the two arguing men. "Dudes, can we chill out? I'm sorry I even asked about this political stuff. Let's just finish our food in peace, all right?"

Alvor and Kayd reluctantly abandoned their conversation, though they continued to stare daggers at each other. Eventually the bearded man stood, grumbled, "Sigrid'll be expecting me home," and left the inn.

Kayd turned to Desmond and looked serious. "Do you grasp now the situation this country is in?"

"Uh, yeah, more or less. You're on Ulfric's side, then?"

"Of course. I may not be Nord, but Skyrim is still my home and I don't like it being held hostage by those damn elves and their Imperial puppets." Kayd bit the last blob of meat from his goat femur and tossed the bone into the firepit. "So, Desmond. Forgive me if this question is too rude. But if you are a stranger to Skyrim, knowing near nothing of our cause, then why were you sentenced to execution with us?"

Desmond prolonged the sip he was taking until he thought up an answer. "Well..." he finally began. "I guess the short version is... my family has a history of opposing the Empire." _The Empire seem to be the bad guys here. Equivalent to Templars, kind of. So that's not really a lie, per se. It's not really anything to do with why I was on that cart, but he'd probably question my sanity if I told him the whole story._

"But you aren't allied with Stormcloak?"

"I... No. We're our own thing."

"Who's 'we'?"

"My family and friends." Desmond sighed very quietly.

"All of them still back in New York, I presume?"

"Uh..." He honestly didn't know._ Shaun, Becca, and Dad all left the Temple like I told them to. They might be right outside the cave or they might be halfway across the country by now. And Mom..._ He sighed again. "I'm really not sure. I hope they're safe, wherever they are."

"Well, any enemy of the Empire is a friend of the Stormcloaks." Kayd clapped Desmond gently on the back. "I pray the Divines watch over your allies and mine alike."

_Divines? _Desmond had always considered himself an atheist, but now realized his spiritual beliefs might need some adjusting in this new world. _There's magic and dragons and elves and shit, so I guess gods aren't out of the question. I mean, assuming this is all real, not a simulation or hallucination._

Real or not, he definitely felt as if he'd spent the day narrowly escaping various dangers, and he was appropriately exhausted. "This place rents rooms, right?"

Kayd nodded from behind his mug as he drained the last drops of his ale. "Ten gold a night."

Furrowing his brows, Desmond pulled out the remaining coins from his pocket. "I'll only have five left after that."

"Mmm." Kayd looked in his own coin purse. "I'm also low on funds."

"Um. I guess we could split one room between us?" Desmond suggested hesitantly.

"And one bed?"

"You can have the bed," Desmond said hastily. "I got no problem sleeping on the floor."

The innkeeper gave them a dirty look when they paid their ten gold, but didn't say anything, just pointed the way to their room. Desmond laid himself down on one of the fur rugs and folded another fur as a makeshift pillow.

"Are you sure you're all right down there?" Kayd asked.

"I'm fine. I been sleeping on floors a lot lately, so I'm kinda used to it."

"Hm. If you say so." Kayd settled into the bed, which didn't look that much more comfortable than the floor anyway. "What say we head up to Whiterun tomorrow? Perhaps the Drunken Huntsman might hire you on."

"Sure, I got nothing else on my schedule."

"And if that fails, then we'll continue northward to Windhelm and see about getting you into the Stormcloaks!" Kayd sounded a little giddy at this prospect.

Desmond yawned. "Maybe. Right now I just wanna sleep." And sleep he did.


	10. A Fitful Dream

Sleep came easily to Desmond despite the rough scratchiness of his fur beddings and the chill of the night. But with sleep came dreams, and not all of them good ones.

For most of his life he'd never had many dreams, or at least not many that he remembered afterward, but using the Animus had changed that. Now he dreamed almost every night, and very vividly. It seemed that something about unlocking the hidden lives recorded inside of him had also unlocked his unconscious mind's imagination. Perhaps it was related to the Bleeding Effect, for his dreams often played out from the point of view of one of his ancestors. But equally often he was just himself, in a variety of situations, from the mundane to the bizarre.

Tonight he was having a particularly weird one. At the climactic point of it, a giant space dragon, ridden by a giant Minerva, was burning the Earth to toast. He awoke in a shuddering sweat and sat up, blinking in the darkness. _Damn. What a crazy-ass dream... And a fucking long one too... It felt like hours and hours and- Wait. Wait a minute..._

As his eyes adjusted to the low light of an almost burned-out candle, Desmond realized he wasn't surrounded by the smooth and eerie geometry of the Grand Temple, but by the rustic wooden furnishings of the Sleeping Giant Inn. "Fuck," he said under his breath, then again, longer and more drawn-out. "Ffffuuuuck..."

_It wasn't a dream. ...Well, Minerva riding a space dragon probably was. But everything else: the giant spiders, the glowing pillar, the finger-lightning dude, the health potion, the normal dragon- Hah. "Normal dragon". Now that's two words I never thought I'd use together._

Feeling dazed, he got up, borrowed a coat from the wardrobe, and went outside to try and clear his head. He leant against a tree trunk and gazed up at the night sky. Even the stars were unfamiliar. All the kids on the Farm had gotten celestial navigation lessons drilled into their heads. After escaping the place, Desmond had made good use of the knowledge on his cross-country trek, and now he could tell at a glance that this sky was not the sky of his own world. _No Ursa Major. No Ursa Minor. No Aquila. No Orion. Nothing I can recognize at all. _A bittersweet sigh escaped him, fogging in the air.

"Look at it this way, Desmond," he said aloud to himself. "You wanted to take a vacation after that doomsday temple stuff was over, right? Well, you got your wish. You got to take a vacation to a whole other fuckin' universe." He rolled his eyes and kicked a stray stone on the ground. "Hell of a vacation. Starts off with almost being decapitated. But hey, you're an Assassin, you're used to everyone tryna kill you, right?" He sighed again and headed back inside.

* * *

><p>The next morning Desmond was awoken by a boot nudging the side of his ribs. He let out a soft groan and frowned blearily up at Kayd.<p>

"Sorry, friend. I wanted to let you have your rest, but the bard's playing _Age of Aggression_, and I can't stand it."

Desmond rubbed sleep-crust from his eyes and wondered what the hell Kayd was talking about, but then heard a jaunty voice, with lute accompaniment, from the main room of the inn: "Down with Ulfric! The killer of kings! On the day of your death, we'll drink and we'll sing!"

Kayd winced, as if physically hurt by the lyrics, and kicked Desmond again, a little less gently this time. "Let's get a move on!"

They hustled out of the inn, Kayd shooting a fierce glare at the bard.

"Guess we can't afford breakfast, huh?" Desmond said, then remembered something. "Hey, Ralof told me his sister's family lives in this town. And he said she'd help us out. D'you know where her house is?"

"Gerdur? Yes, I know where she lives. Let's go then." The two of them ambled down the path until a shrill voice broke the morning calm.

"I'm telling you, Dorthe, I saw a dragon!"

Desmond and Kayd turned toward the shout. On the porch to their left, a middle-aged woman was talking to a young girl.

"Hilde, stop it," the girl said, rolling her eyes. "I know dragons aren't real."

"Sven didn't believe me either! But I know what I saw! It was as big as the mountain, and black as night!" Hilde's eyes were wide and shaky.

Dorthe stamped her foot. "I'm too old to believe in those dumb legends!"

"Legend no more," Kayd said, approaching the porch. "We saw it too."

Desmond nodded. "Yeah, but 'as big as the mountain' is kinda exaggerating. It was pretty damn big, though."

Hilde clapped her hands. "Finally, someone believes me!"

Dorthe looked up at the two men. "There's really dragons? Just like the legend?"

"I dunno about 'just like the legend', but it sure was a dragon," Desmond said, then, upon seeing the girl cringe in fear, he hastily added, "But he flew away yesterday, he's long gone now, so don't worry, okay?"

"I'm not scared!" Dorthe insisted. "Me an' Frodnar can take on any bad old dragon! We'll fight him together!"

Hilde grabbed the girl's shoulder. "You leave the fighting to the guards, dearie!" she chided.

Dorthe pouted. "Aw, you're no fun!"

Kayd and Desmond took their leave, continuing onward to Gerdur's house.

* * *

><p>"Desmond! Kayd!" Ralof embraced them like long-lost brothers. "I see you've made it. I told you my sister would help us out." He turned to face a woman seated at the table, whose shiny blonde hair and high cheekbones matched his own in an unmistakable family resemblance. "Gerdur, this is Desmond, the plucky fighter I was just telling you about, and Kayd I believe you've met before."<p>

Gerdur nodded. "Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine. You two are welcome to stay here as long as you need."

Desmond took a seat as well. "I don't think we're staying, actually. We were gonna head up to, uh, whatsit-town-"

"Whiterun," Kayd supplied with a grin. "Specifically, the Drunken Huntsman. Desmond looks for all the world like a seasoned warrior, but he says his true calling is waiting on drunks in a tavern."

Ralof laughed heartily. "By Shor, you've got to be kidding!"

"It's true!" Desmond countered. "I'm a bartender, and a damn good one, too! Or I **was**, before Absterg-" He stopped abruptly.

The other three stared at him, puzzled. "Absterg?" Gerdur repeated. "What is that?"

"Absterg**o**. It's the name of, um..." _Do they have 'corporations' here?_ he wondered briefly. _Probably not. _"Abstergo's a huge organization. With a lot of money. They're, uh... they're bad people." _Ugh, what a fucking lame-ass way to put it, but I don't really feel like explaining all about Templars and Assassins and Pieces of Eden right now._ He settled for, "They pretty much control the world back where I'm from," then pointed to a bubbling soup pot next to the fireplace. "Can I have some of whatever that is?"

"Beef stew," Ralof said. "Go right ahead. There's plenty to go around."

Desmond eagerly served himself a bowl of the stew.

"'Bad people'? How so?" Kayd asked.

"Oh boy. Where do I start? They think they're making the world more peaceful by eliminating freedom. They killed a bunch of my allies some ten years ago, trying to purge us from existence. And just a few months ago, they kidnapped me, held me hostage, threatened to kill me once they had the information they wanted."

"But you escaped, apparently."

"They wanted me to escape," Desmond said bitterly. "So I'd let my guard down. A so-called 'friend' of mine was actually working for them, so they were still watching me. Hoping I'd lead them right to their goal. And they almost succeeded." He closed his eyes and rubbed the side of his head, feeling sickened. "I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just eat and then get to Whiterun."

"When you get there, could you do something for me? For all of us here?" Gerdur asked.

"Sure, what?"

"Ralof told me what happened. There's a dragon on the loose and Riverwood is defenseless. We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can. If you'll do that for me, I'll be in your debt."

Desmond exchanged a quick glance with Ralof and Kayd. In that glance, the three of them silently decided it was better not to mention that countless Imperial soldiers had been unable to defend against the dragon's wrath in Helgen. "Uh, sure, I'll let him know," Desmond said, hoping his voice didn't betray him. "So, how do I get to Whiterun from here?"

"Cross the river and then head north. You'll see Whiterun on its hill as you pass the falls," Gerdur said. Desmond had been trying to place what exactly her accent sounded like; the slightly swallowed Rs and airy vowels seemed Scandinavian, he now decided. _Not that I know a lot of Scandinavian people to compare it to, but hey._

Ralof frowned. "You're seriously going to settle in Whiterun, then?"

"You got some problem with Whiterun?"

"It's an all right town," Ralof admitted with a half-shrug. "Jarl Balgruuf still hasn't declared for one side or the other, so at least you won't be too bothered by Imperials. But I've seen you fight, Desmond. It'd be a crime to waste that talent in the Drunken Huntsman!"

Desmond swallowed another spoonful of stew before answering. "Lemme guess, you want me to join up with Ulfric."

"Didn't I say as much when we left Helgen?" Ralof swung his almost-empty mug through the air as he spoke. "You'd make a fine Stormcloak, I know it."

"Ulfric's cause is just, Desmond," Gerdur said, her voice gentle yet unwavering. "The Empire may have been good for Skyrim once upon a time, but those days are long past. I'm glad Ralof is helping drive them out of here. If I was a bit younger, I might have joined the fight myself."

Kayd laughed. "Come on, you aren't all that old, Gerdur! I'm sure you could join Ulfric now!"

Gerdur smiled. "Perhaps, but I have Frodnar and the mill to look after here in Riverwood."

"Ahh," Ralof sighed. "So you do. Regardless, we need every able man and woman we can find to stand for Skyrim's freedom." He looked to Desmond again. "And you're more than able enough. It doesn't matter that you aren't from Skyrim. Galmar would even accept an Argonian, if he was half as fearless as you, Desmond."

"Galmar?" Desmond asked.

"Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's right-hand man. He handles the new recruits."

"He's a tough old soul. A veteran of the Great War, same as Ulfric," Kayd put in.

Desmond, of course, had no context in which to put this information, so he just sipped some more of his stew, trying not to look too confused.

"I can tell you're unsure, Desmond," Ralof said, eyes piercing and stern. "But I can also tell you're an honorable man. Promise me this. Promise me you'll at least visit Windhelm, and talk to Ulfric."

He swallowed the last of the stew. "All right, Ralof. I'll do that. Maybe not right away, but I **will** do it, I promise." _I don't exactly want to get mixed up in this war thing, but it couldn't hurt to talk to the guy, right? And maybe their cause really is something worth fighting for._ "Remind me where Windhelm is?"

"Northeast of here. Right where the White River splits into River Yorgrim. It's on that map I gave you. Can't miss it."

"Right, of course." Desmond stood up and looked to Kayd, who had just finished off a stew bowl of his own. "You ready to go, then?"

Kayd nodded and got up. "I thank you for your generosity, Gerdur. And your cooking is phenomenal."

She inclined her head graciously. "If there's anything else you need, just let me know."

"I think we're good for now," Desmond said. "Unless you have any health potions you're not using?"

As it turned out, she did have a couple to spare, and Desmond thanked her profusely as he put them into his knapsack. _These things are fucking amazing. I wonder just how bad you'd have to be injured before they didn't work anymore?_

"I'm going to rest up here a while before heading to Windhelm," Ralof said, sounding suddenly tired. "Good luck."

Desmond and Kayd bid him and his sister a warm farewell, then headed out.

* * *

><p>Thanks again to all my awesome reviewers! As always, all suggestions, comments, and concrits are very welcome : )<p> 


	11. Exposition Boulevard

The day was sunny but mild, with no trace of last night's light snowfall. Butterflies coasted along on occasional fragrant breezes as the two men set off across the river, then turned to follow the northward path.

Desmond supposed now was about as good a time as any to ask a question. "Hey, Kayd?"

"Hm?"

"I keep hearing about a dragon legend. Can you tell me something about that?"

"Are there no dragon legends told in New York?"

"Well, yeah, there's a few." Desmond recalled one in particular from his favorite book in the Farm's library. "For example, there's a legend where a dragon named Smaug takes over the mountain kingdom of the dwarves. 'Cause Smaug really likes gold and treasure and shit, and the dwarves had this ginormous treasure room inside the mountain. So he kicked the dwarves out and went to sleep in a big pile'a'gold. 'Cause that's how he do."

"A single dragon drove the dwarves to extinction?" Kayd looked fearful.

"Nah, Smaug didn't wipe 'em out. They just had to go live somewhere else for a hundred or so years. Then the dwarf king's son or grandson or something came back and killed Smaug later. Wait, actually I think it might've been some other dude who killed him." Desmond didn't recall the details very well; after all, it had been a good decade or more since he'd last read _The Hobbit._ "But anyway, then there wasn't any dragon guarding the treasure, so there was a crazy battle between the dwarves, the elves, the orcs, and the humans." As he spoke, Desmond gradually realized that the events of Tolkien's fantasy actually wouldn't be so fantastical in this universe. _Holy shit! Maybe..._ "Um, as long as we're trading legends, do you guys have any legends about a guy called Sauron?"

"Sauron..." Kayd thought for a few moments. "It sounds Elvish, but I can't say I've heard that particular name before."

"He's not an elf, but whatever. All right, have you ever heard of the One Ring?"

Kayd just looked puzzled at this.

"A.K.A. the Ring of Power?" Desmond offered.

"An enchanted ring of some sort? What is it said to do?"

"It turns you invisible. But it also turns you evil."

"Ah. I have heard tell of rings enchanted to grant certain minor blessings. None that 'turn you evil', though."

_Guess this isn't Middle-Earth after all, then._ "Well, it is just a book. Just a legend." _And a movie series_, Desmond refrained from adding, not sure he'd be able to explain that concept properly.

"We all thought that dragons were legend," Kayd pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I guess some legends have a grain of truth to them," Desmond said, remembering the one about Adam and Eve and an apple. "So, tell me the Skyrim dragon legend."

Kayd scratched his head. "Well... it is said that in days of yore, dragons were plentiful in Skyrim, and were worshipped by the ancient Nords. At some point they all vanished, or were slain, or something like that."

Desmond waited for the rest of it, but he soon realized that was all. He stopped walking and grabbed Kayd's arm to pull him to a halt as well. "That's it?" he said shrilly. "**That's** the amazing dragon legend? 'Once upon a time there was a shitload of dragons and now there's not, we don't know why, the end'? What the hell?"

Frowning, Kayd shook free of his grip. "There's probably more to it, Desmond. However, I don't know any further details. I was never one to pay much attention to legends. Especially legends about ancient history."

"Heh." Desmond chuckled lightly. "Me neither, I guess. But, uh, y'know, sometimes history is more relevant than you'd think. There's a saying where I'm from: 'Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it.'"

They resumed their walk, and Kayd rubbed his chin, pondering the phrase Desmond had quoted. "Doomed to repeat it... I quite like that saying. It's very wise."

"Speakin' of history, tell me about this Great War Ulfric fought in."

This simple inquiry made Kayd's jaw drop. "By the Nine, you haven't heard of- You've got to be joking!"

"Uh... Yeah." Desmond put on a fake smile. "Haha. Ha, of course I know about the Great War, I mean, who doesn't? Oh man, you shoulda seen the look on your face. Ha ha."

He wasn't quite sure that Kayd bought this, but at any rate the subject was dropped and they continued their trek in silence for some minutes.

Ahead of them, an elk drinking from the river looked up at their approaching footfalls, froze stock still, then nimbly leapt into the shallow water and paddled away.

Eventually Kayd spoke again, more slowly and somberly. "There's another legend I've heard." He turned to face Desmond, looking grim. "Supposedly... dragons can never be truly killed."

"Say what?" Desmond sputtered.

"Except by the Dragonborn."

"By the **what**?"

Kayd shrugged. "Some sort of mighty warrior. A mortal blessed by the gods. Again, I don't know further details."

"Dragonborn," Desmond repeated. "Like, **literally** born from a dragon?"

"I just said I don't know!" Kayd huffed. "But if I had to venture a guess, then no, I suppose it isn't meant literally!"

Desmond shrank back slightly. "Geez, dude. Yeah, now that I think about it, that was a pretty stupid question, but you don't have to bite my head off."

"Bite your head off? Heh." Kayd chuckled at the unfamiliar idiom. "You certainly have an interesting manner of speech. I've never heard anything like it. Where exactly **is** your country of New York?"

Now Desmond chuckled. "It's not a country, it's a city. Not some dinky little place like Riverwood or Helgen, though. There's millions of people living there."

"Millions?" Kayd gaped.

"Yeah, there's like two mill in Brooklyn alone, I think," Desmond said offhandedly. "Brooklyn, that's one of the five boroughs, the one I lived in. Each borough is kinda like its own city, actually."

"Surely this is another of your jokes, Desmond," Kayd pleaded. "Millions of people could not live in one city! I'm not sure there are even one million people in all of Skyrim!"

"Well, they might not be truly 'living' but they do reside there, at least."

"The citizens are **undead**?"

Desmond flailed his hands in front of his face. "No, no, that's not what I meant! I mean a lot of them have really shitty lives, is all. Trust me, I dealt with a lot of weirdos at Bad Weather, but I'm pretty sure none of them were actual zombies."

Kayd was silent another minute, still trying to process the concept of New York's population.

The words "undead" and "zombies" echoed in Desmond's mind. _Oh boy, I guess they have those here too._

"Your land must be truly distant," Kayd said at last. "I have never seen 'New York' or 'Brook Lin' on any map of Tamriel."

"Brooklyn," Desmond corrected. "It's 'Brooklyn', one word, not 'Brook Lin'."

Kayd snorted. "All right, then. I have never seen 'Brooklyn' on a Tamrielic map either. It's on some other continent?" he asked, voice tone rising in slight amazement.

"It's pretty fuckin' far away, yeah," Desmond said, wondering how much of the truth he could tell without being branded a heretic or a madman.

"Yet you speak Tamrielic, if a little oddly."

Desmond shrugged off this observation. "I know a lotta languages. And yours is pretty similar to mine, actually."

Kayd's eyes were suspiciously narrowed and he appeared about to ask another probing question, but Desmond cut him off by pointing to the river on their right. Ahead of them, it rushed steeply downward over jagged rocks. "Whiterun's just past the waterfall, right?" He lifted his gaze and peered through the pine trees. Sure enough, a walled city thick with medieval buildings was visible in the near distance.

Despite the roar of the falls, Desmond's keen ears heard Kayd's low hiss of disgust. "Imperial dogs!" he spat under his breath, then gestured at a group of people some eighty yards down the hilly path.

There were four of them: three soldiers in Imperial armor and one man, wrists bound, in the same sort of tatty rags Desmond himself had been wearing only yesterday.

"We must free him." Kayd turned to Desmond. "I know you are no Stormcloak yet, but-"

"Shh," Desmond said quietly. He raised his hood and squinted at the soldiers and their prisoner, then looked above the scene at the tall trees lining the path to Whiterun.

Kayd gritted his teeth. "Well if you're just going to stand there sightseeing, I'll free him myself!" He took out his axe and jogged ahead.

"Wait!" Desmond called after him, but it was no use. The Imperials had already spotted him and had pulled out their swords to meet him in battle. _Three against one, with no fucking stealth approach. Goddammit, these Stormcloaks are stupid._ Desmond scrambled up a large rock, then jumped from the top of that onto a tree branch.

In two shakes of a skeever's tail, the three Imperials had Kayd surrounded. He swung his axe fiercely at the one in front of him, landing a slice clean through the leather armor. But in the same instant, the soldier on his left brought his sword edge down to chop into the Redguard's arm, and he roared in pain and anger as blood spurted from the wound. Dodging a swing from the third soldier, Kayd spun to face the one on his left, raising his axe to retaliate. "Freedom or Sovngarde!" he shouted as he hacked into the Imperial.

"Ha!" the soldier laughed. "Like the bite of a-"

Just then, a brown blur dropped out of nowhere on top of the soldier. Kayd was thrown off for half a second, wondering at the identity and intentions of this newcomer. But when he spotted the distinctive tattoo peeking out from under the man's left bracer, he let out a laugh and resumed the battle with renewed vigor.

The two remaining soldiers were even more flustered by the hooded man's sudden appearance, and they kept stealing glances upward to check for more possible aerial attackers. With their attention thus compromised, the Stormcloak and the Assassin soon defeated them.

When the last of the three Imperials had fallen, Kayd shot Desmond a look that was half smirk and half sneer. "You made quite an entrance there. I'm glad you decided to help after all."

Desmond threw back his hood and glared. "Dude! I was gonna help you!"

"And you did, eventually." Kayd went over to the prisoner and cut him free from his binds.

"Oh, Talos bless you for saving me from those Imperials!" the man said, smiling brightly.

Kayd smiled back. "It's always my pleasure to put down rabid Imperial dogs. Whiterun's just down the road, friend, you'll find refuge there in Balgruuf's neutrality."

The man thanked them again and scampered off down the hill.

Desmond, noticing Kayd's arm was still bleeding freely, pulled a health potion from his knapsack and handed it over. "You're injured. You probably wouldn't be if you hadn't ran off ahead of me."

"Hmph." Kayd took the potion and drank it. The gash on his arm sewed itself back together within seconds, and Desmond tried not to look too amazed at the sight. Kayd then flung the empty bottle back to him with more force than was necessary. "Maybe we were wrong about you, Desmond. Maybe you're not cut out to be a Stormcloak after all."

_I never actually said I wanted to be one_, Desmond thought, but didn't say. Instead, he said, "I wasn't just sightseeing back there, you know. I was scoping out the situation."

"The situation was clear," Kayd said firmly. "These Imperial bastards had that man prisoner."

"And we coulda saved him with less bloodshed," Desmond shot back. "We coulda bribed them to let him go, instead of killing them."

Kayd threw back his head and laughed. "Hah! Even assuming they were the sort to take a bribe, with what would you have bribed them, Desmond?"

Desmond grunted in acknowledgement of their lack of money. "Okay, fine, but you got your arm sliced open, and now we're down a health potion. We coulda avoided that with a little strategy. Instead of just rushing into battle, we coulda snuck up on 'em through these bushes." He pointed to the thick shrubbery that lined the path. "Or, we coulda **both** done air assassinations, then we'd only have to fight one guy on the ground."

Kayd gave him an odd look. "Air assassination?" he repeated warily. "Another of your odd New York sayings?"

"That's what I did, when I took out that dude from the tree," Desmond said, kneeling down to check the dead men's pockets out of habit. He came up with a dozen gold coins and added them to his own meager collection, then began to lift up one of the bodies.

"What are you doing?"

"Hiding the bodies, what does it look like?" Desmond panted. With a bit of effort, he pulled the dead man into the shrubbery, then turned back to face Kayd. "You gonna help or you gonna make me do all three myself?"

"What point is there in hiding them?"

Desmond rolled his eyes. "I dunno about you weird Skyrim folk, but where I'm from, people tend to freak out if they're just walking down the road and they see a pile of fresh corpses. People usually report that sorta shit to the authorities. Authorities usually wanna find out who did it, capisce?"

"What is 'capeesh'?"

Desmond heaved a massive sigh and began dragging another of the soldiers out of view. "It means 'do you understand?'"

"I have no problem with leaving dead Imperials out on display. A flesh-and-blood proof to the people of Skyrim that the Empire's days are numbered."

"Yeah, well, I'm not you. I'm more of a keep-things-discreet type of guy."

"It must be a very rough sort of tavern you work at," Kayd said.

Desmond didn't fail to detect the sarcasm. "Okay, you got me, Kayd." He kicked the last body into the bush and turned to face him. "You got me, I'm not exactly a hundred percent a barten- uh, tavern worker. I did work a tavern for a few years, but that's not what I was doing before I came to Skyrim."

Kayd looked way too smug. "You're not really from a place called New York, either, I suspect."

"No, that part's true, I **am** from New York!" Desmond retorted, then thought a moment before adding, "Well, actually, yeah, you're kinda right. I'm originally from South Dakota."

"South **where**?"

"Yeah, that's not on any map you've seen either, I know." Desmond sighed. "But it's true, I was really truly born in a place called South Dakota. It's another part of the same country as New York."

Kayd crossed his arms, still looking a bit skeptical. "And what country is that, anyway?"

"It's got a few names. The United States of America. The USA for short. The land of the free, the home of the brave."

Kayd uncrossed his arms and his face softened. "I can tell by the homesick look in your eyes that this is a real place."

"Yeah."

"Is it across the Sea of Ghosts?" At Desmond's blank look, Kayd offered additional options. "Across the Padomaic Ocean? ...Across the **Eltheric** Ocean?... Come on, man, at the least, you can tell me if your homeland is north, south, east, or west of here."

"It's... I don't know, Kayd, all right?!" Desmond was starting to sweat. _Shit, he's gonna make me spill the whole beans._

The skeptical look was back. "I don't know you well, Desmond Miles, but I know you are not stupid. Surely you have the geographic knowledge to tell me what direction you hail from."

"I don't know the direction because..." Desmond braced himself. "Because it's in an alternate universe, okay?!"

Kayd blinked. A fluttering sounded through the air above them as a small group of birds took off all at once from a nearby tree. Desmond wondered whether he should have just answered with an arbitrary direction.

"Alternate... what?"

"No concept of 'universe', okay, right," Desmond muttered subvocally, then scrambled for another way to phrase it. "Like a different world, a different planet, a different... plane of existence, or something like that!"

Kayd was now full-on staring at him, goggling, wide-eyed, as if Desmond was some otherworldly being. (Which, technically, he was.) "I need to sit down," he mumbled, resting his head in his hands.

Desmond let out a tiny chuckle. "Yeah, I bet."

Kayd staggered down to the bottom of the gentle slope and Desmond followed. The path they were on split into three after the pine trees ended. Bridges spanned gentle creeks on two of the forks: over the bridge straight ahead lay the city of Whiterun, and to the right was the sudden jagged hulk of the Throat of the World.

Kayd took a seat on the low endstone of the nearest bridge and took a couple of deep breaths before looking at Desmond again, eyes still big as saucers. "You... you are not from Nirn?" he whispered, awestruck. "Not from Mundus?"

Desmond lifted his arms in a high shrug. "I guess not?"

"This explains why you could not tell me your race." Kayd shifted uneasily on the stone. "You are Daedra."

"I don't think I'm whatever that is." Desmond belatedly remembered a fragment of dialogue from last night in the inn: _"Sold his soul to a Daedra!" Shit, I guess that's some sort of demonic entity!_ He shook his head fervently. "No way, I'm definitely not a Daedra, geez! I'm a **person**, a human being, like you or Ralof or whatever. In my world they'd say my race is 'White'."

Kayd relaxed a fraction and cracked a tiny smile. "But you are not white any more than I am black."

"Yeah, I know, it doesn't make sense."

"So... you are some variety of magic-user?"

Desmond had to chuckle again at that. "Nah. I'm just some guy."

"Then... how did you travel from your world to this one?"

Desmond shrugged again. "I'm not sure myself, Kayd. I didn't do it on purpose, that's for sure. I'm just guessing, but..." He made a snap decision not to attempt explaining the First Civilization and the solar doomsday. At least not yet. "I think... I think I got sent here after I died in my world."

"You..." Kayd blinked at him several times. "You died."

"I was **supposed** to die, at least." Desmond had a brief and horrifying thought. _Fuck. If I'm not dead, does that mean the Eye didn't get activated and the Earth didn't get saved? Did Minerva send me here somehow so Juno wouldn't get released?_ With a great deal of difficulty, he pushed that thought away. _There's no way to know. No point in worrying about it now._

"How did you die?" Kayd asked softly.

Desmond looked away. "Sacrifice," he mumbled. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Staying safe, I hope?" Kayd and Desmond jolted when another voice interrupted their dialogue. Desmond turned to his left to see a man in loose cloth and chainmail, a long sword at his belt and a round wooden shield in his hand. A ram's head adorned the shield and the man's own head was completely covered by a full helmet. "Helgen, destroyed by a dragon. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah." Kayd glanced sideways at Desmond. "Lots of unbelievable things happening these days."


End file.
